


Constellation

by MissXolo



Series: Starlight [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Emotional, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissXolo/pseuds/MissXolo
Summary: The assault is over and done with, but the trauma is not.Sequel to Starlight.





	Constellation

I wake up screaming and crying.

I keep apologizing, telling Hercules  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry _ through my sobs and shuddering gasps for air. I woke him up with my goddamn nightmares once again. I should be sorry.

He’s holding me tightly against his chest, rubbing comforting circles into my back through my t-shirt and telling me that I’m safe here, and no one can hurt me anymore and that everything’s okay. For a while I am almost inconsolable. My heart pounds in my chest. My breaths are shallow and don’t feel like they’re reaching my lungs. I catch a glimpse of the red numbers on the alarm clock. It’s 2:17 AM.

I feel horribly sick to my stomach, and I realize that Herc is rocking me slightly, which makes the sick feeling much worse. I try to breathe deeply.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Herc asks, and the dream painfully rushes back to me. I see it vividly in my head - the humiliation, the fear, teeth, dirt under my fingernails, cold snow on my back, being violated. I gag.

_ Nothing but a nice piece of ass. _

I push on Herc’s chest. Hard. He tenses, probably thinking that he offended me and that I’m trying to get away from him. He lets me go and holds his hands up to give me space. It’s not that I want to get away from him, but I need to get away because I’m seconds away from vomiting on our sheets. I manage to scramble to the side of the bed and grab the trash can that I keep next to my nightstand.

Herc comes up behind me and strokes my shoulders and the back of my neck gently. He brushes away the strands of hair that have fallen out of my knotted ponytail to keep them from moving in front of my mouth. He takes such good care of me.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, swiping at the tears that still leak out of the corners of my eyes. “Just relax and let it out. I’ve got you.”

When I’m through, he lifts me up onto his hip like a baby and carries me to our bathroom. He turns the faucet on in the sink and moves to wash my mouth out, but I bat his hand away and do it myself. I make sure my mouth is clean before I wash my face, splashing the cold water up over my cheeks to rinse away what's left of my earlier tears. Herc lifts me up to sit on the counter as I dry my face, hands me a cup of water, and leaves to quickly dispose of the contents of the trashcan that I vomited into earlier. After a few minutes, he returns and sits on the rim of the bathtub across from me.

It's a while before either of us can find something to say. “I’m sorry,” I say in a deflated whisper. 

“Don't be,” Herc responds. “It's not like you can help it. Same dream again?”

“Same as it always is.”

“Oh, baby.” He leans forward and reaches a hand out to wrap around my left ankle. He rubs slow circles with his thumb, leaving trails of warmth on my skin. Herc is really warm all the time. It comes in handy. 

“Hercules,” I say. I pause, trying to figure out a way to word what I'm about to say without making him worry. I'm just sick of having these constant nightmares. It's a terrible way of saying it, but I tell him, “I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”

His movements stutter and stop. He doesn't look at me; he just stares forward, brings his free hand to his face, drops it down, and brings it back up again nervously. My breathing picks up. 

“That's not what I mean,” I say quickly. “I'm just so tired of this. I would never-”

“Shh,” he interrupts. “It's okay. I understand how you feel. I feel it too.” He pauses, letting go of my ankle and lacing his fingers together. “The only thing I want is for you to be happy. That's it. It hurts so bad, baby, when I have to sit by and watch you hurting, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. You have every right to be tired.”

I feel the sting of tears returning to my eyes and blink them away hurriedly. I don't feel like crying again. Not right now. 

Herc looks up at me again and I feel my resolve breaking.  _ Weak _ . My lower lip wobbles as one, two, and then a steady stream of tears slide down my cheeks. Hercules stands and envelopes me in a comforting embrace. 

“It's been  _ months _ ,” I say, a sob cutting off my voice and making it sound strangled. “I shouldn't be having nightmares anymore. It's annoying. It's frustrating.”  _And it fucking sucks._

“Have you talked to Rose about your dreams?” he asks. Rose. My therapist. I have talked to her about the nightmares and she doesn't quite know what to do about them either. She thinks the stress of the trial might have something to do with it; maybe my mind is preparing me to spit out the story of that night all over again to an audience of lawyers and the jury and the judge. And my rapists. 

My grip on the cup of water loosens and it slides out of my hand. Thankfully, it's plastic, but it makes so much noise as it clatters around and water goes all over the fucking floor. I tell myself I'm lucky it doesn't wake John or Alex, and then I remember that they slept through my screaming earlier. They won't wake. 

Herc makes quick work of cleaning up the spilled water while I just sit on the counter. I feel dazed and tired. I wish I hadn’t even woken up. This is going to bite both of us in the ass in the morning. Sure, it’s a Saturday, but neither of us have been able to handle a lack of sleep since we graduated college and all-nighters weren’t needed anymore. Thinking about tomorrow makes me feel worse and reminds me that it’s my fault, and I’ll be the reason why we’ll end up feeling terrible all day.

Daily life is a fog. It reminds me of the anti-drugs and alcohol education in grade school when they made all of the fifth-graders put on drunk goggles and try to walk heel-to-toe on a line of white tape. Except I can't take the drunk goggles off. Ever. And every misstep sends me further into the seemingly bottomless pit of self-loathing; I did this to myself. I walked alone at night, in the middle of winter, down a dark street by the woods. I know, in the realistic part of my mind, that it's not my fault, but it certainly  _feels_ like I'm the one who fucked up.

If it's not my fault, then why am I being punished like this?

This is hell.


End file.
